Glad Rags
by MadHatter524
Summary: Even though Ron and Hermione had that infamous argument after the Yule Ball, their experiences were actually quite similar. For the Pairing Diversity Boot Camp Challenge, 1/50. Two-shot.
1. Hermione

**A/N: Written for the Pairing Diversity Boot Camp Challenge with the prompt: glad rags. 1/50**

When Hermione Granger looked at her reflection that afternoon, she didn't see herself. She didn't see the bushy-haired girl weighed down by schoolbooks that she had grown so accustomed to looking at in the mirror.

Her chestnut curls were smooth and elegant down her back with one lock of hair placed in front of her shoulder, so different from the bushy mess that she'd given up hope about taming a long while ago.

She stood straight and tall as if she were a marionette whose strings were being pulled, not at all like the hunched-over girl that she caught glimpses of who could barely be seen behind her towering pile of schoolbooks.

Her slightly fitted gown flowed elegantly down her body, so strangely alien from the black, red, and gold uniform that was so loose and unrefined.

When Hermione Granger looked in the mirror at that figure that had to be her and yet couldn't possibly be, she was seeing the girl she'd always longed to be.

She was pretty. She didn't like seeming vain, but it was true: the girl in the mirror was pretty – beautiful, even. She smiled. Now there were words that she never would have used to describe herself yesterday. The hair that she had tried so often to tame was now smooth, her posture that had never been improved by hunching over old, dusty textbooks in the library, was now elegant, and the dress, her best dress, the best clothes she'd ever owned – glad rags, her mum would call them – was perfect.

And she was popular. At least, popular enough that she had a date to the Yule Ball. It was true that he wasn't exactly the person that she was hoping would ask, but he was an internationally famous Quidditch player. That had to count for something, even if she couldn't care less about Quidditch.

She sighed, straightened out some nonexistent wrinkles in her dress to give her a few extra seconds, and then slowly walked out of the dormitory.

She did have fun, she couldn't deny that. Viktor was very pleasant company to spend the evening with. It was a bit strange to be turning heads wherever she went. She could almost hear the people thinking: _That's Hermione?_

She couldn't help herself, though – she found herself scanning the crowded Great Hall for Ron. She found herself wondering: _Why couldn't he have asked me to the ball before Krum got the chance?_ She found herself wishing that she was dancing with him. Yes, Viktor was nice, and he liked her for who she normally was instead of the girl she was dressing up as tonight. But so did Ron – hadn't time proved that? Yes, he'd been absolutely rotten to her for the first two months that they'd been in school together, but things had changed – was it too much to hope for that they might change just a little bit more?

She did see Ron a few times, and he never looked particularly happy. He had gotten Padma Patil as a date to the ball (well, actually, Harry and Parvati had arranged that for him), but he was completely ignoring her. Not that long into the Ball, she had left him to sulk and went to go dance with a boy Hermione didn't recognize – probably from Beauxbatons.

But when the ball ended, everything came crashing down. She didn't remember anything that she said, and she knew that she'd regret some of it. All she remembered was the yelling and the arguing, being torn between fury and sobs, feeling guilty for yelling at one of her best friends but having so much anger that it didn't seem to matter.

And then it was all over, and she remembered crying. The night had been perfectly happy except for that argument, but that one thing had managed to tip the scale of her emotions so drastically that nothing else seemed to matter. She knew that she should go up to the Common Room, but there was something strangely calming and reassuring about the deserted hall in the aftermath of the dance.

She stood up shakily. Her chestnut curls had gotten a bit tangled, but still appeared fairly neat. She straightened up, adjusting from her usual slightly hunched posture to the elegant stance she had assumed that night. Her glad rags dress still flowed beautifully. Her beauty didn't really matter to her now; not now that there wasn't anyone to see her, not now that she felt so horrible inside.

She sighed, straightened a few wrinkles from her dress to give her a few extra seconds and slowly made her way back to the Common Room.


	2. Ron

When Ron Weasley looked at his reflection that evening, he didn't see his usual reflection. He didn't see the gangly, red-haired teen that he had become so used to seeing in the mirror.

Yes, he still had his red hair, and it was almost the same as was normal. A bit less messy, perhaps, but nothing to completely alter his appearance.

He stood straight and tall, unlike his usual slouched posture. It wasn't out of pride – he was exceedingly uncomfortable, and his expression reflected that as well. He felt as if he were a marionette with his strings being pulled so taut that they were in danger of breaking.

What was the discomfort caused by? Dress robes. Why did he have to wear dress robes, anyway? They were uncomfortable, they were a hideous color, and they had enough lace for two wedding dresses.

When Ron Weasley looked in the mirror at that figure that had to be him and yet couldn't possibly be, he was horrified.

He supposed he didn't look particularly bad, but he didn't look very good, either. He looked like himself, yes, but he was so very uncomfortable in the hideous dress robes – glad rags, somebody had called them, since they were apparently his best clothes (he wasn't sure whether or not that was an insult). Yes, they were formal, and yes, that was what was expected of him tonight, but he wished that it wasn't necessary. He looked like a fool already, and he'd look like even more of a fool in a crowd of people.

He did have a date to the Yule Ball. Granted, he hadn't exactly asked her himself, and she wasn't the person that he'd hoped would say yes, but he still had a date. He was hoping that they wouldn't have to spend a lot of time together. Padma Patil was nice, yes, but they hardly knew each other. He knew that the girl he'd have liked to go with supposedly had a date, but he couldn't think of who it could possibly be. Perhaps she was lying.

He sighed, gave up on making his dress robes look any less hideous, and went to the Great Hall.

He didn't have much fun, especially not after he saw Hermione. She was at the Yule Ball with Viktor Krum? She was here as Viktor Krum's date? It was bad enough that she had a date, why did it have to be someone from another school, Harry's competition, someone famous…something that ordinary Ron Weasley could never hope to be?

He couldn't help himself – he kept looking at her. Once or twice, he fancied that she might have been looking back. He found himself wondering: _Why didn't I ask her? _He wished that it was him that was dancing with her, not Krum. She seemed happy, though. Why couldn't he be making her smile like that? Instead, he was hiding in the corner like some long-forgotten uninvited guest. Padma had left a while ago, dancing with some boy from Beauxbatons. He didn't really mind.

After a while, he found himself becoming not only regretful of the things that he never did, but angry – at himself, at everyone. He didn't want to pinpoint that the fault was his own, even though there was no point pretending that anyone else was to blame. He tried to keep all of the anger in, he really did. He didn't want to get into an argument.

But when the ball ended, he just couldn't hold in the anger any longer. He knew that he was yelling at Hermione, and the rational part of his mind was telling him to stop, but the emotional part didn't have any of this logic and kept going. He saw the tears running down her face, the tears that she was trying so hard to hold back, and still he couldn't stop. It wasn't her fault, he knew that, but he couldn't stand blaming himself any longer.

He stormed back up to the Common Room by himself, leaving Hermione alone in the Great Hall. He was shaking in his anger, and he knew that his eyes were watering with tears that he didn't want to admit were there. Once he got to the Common Room, he crashed into the nearest chair and put his head in his hands.

He felt as horrible as he was sure that he looked in his hideous lacy dress robes. He couldn't even feel the discomfort from the robes anymore; his emotions seemed to overpower all physical feelings. He was sure that he looked almost the same as he had when he walked into the Great Hall earlier that evening, but he felt so much worse. At least the a few hours ago, all of his emotions were the relatively easily dismissible embarrassment and discomfort. Now he had guilt and anger and regret plaguing his thoughts.

He bit his lip, didn't bother to straighten his dress robes, and returned to his dormitory.


End file.
